


The Gardener's Labyrinth

by Shinybug



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Bibliophile Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Kiss, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 22:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20897393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shinybug/pseuds/Shinybug
Summary: In which Crowley reads a book, and Aziraphale reads Crowley.





	The Gardener's Labyrinth

Aziraphale, when he finally surfaces from the deep focus of book restoration, recalls that Crowley had come to visit him at some point that day. Dimly he remembers a conversation--_’lo angel, what’s on the menu for today--oh, i’m afraid i can’t do lunch with you just now my dear, i’m wrist-deep in this broken spine over here, it’s a travesty what was done to this poor volume--no worries, i’m sure i can entertain myself_\--but beyond that he has no memory of what came after.

As he looks around and sees not a single customer, he is extremely pleased, and then notices that he never flipped over the open sign to actually suggest that he might in fact be open. It’s for the best, really, since he possibly wouldn’t have noticed if customers were making off with armfuls of books unpaid. When he does such painstaking restoration work, the whole place could be on fire and he might not notice.

Well. That was perhaps a bit too on the nose, he chides himself. He might never have seen the fire’s destruction for himself, but imagining all his treasures up in flames was trauma enough. Just thinking about it now causes him to shiver, and he puts the kettle on for tea. 

Outside the windows Soho is deep in a remarkable winter snow with fluffy drifts and falling flakes as soft as down feathers. Aziraphale sips his tea at the picture window and thinks of Adam and his perfect weather, and wonders if this is a gift of his.

The sky is a gray blanket over their corner of the world, and there is a hush everywhere just like the First Snow itself, so long ago. In his warm bookshop, Aziraphale finds peace, though he wonders where Crowley has gone, and wishes he had gone to lunch with him after all. A snowy day like this one would have been good to share with a friend. 

He blinks when he hears a small thump, a tiny sound of friction, as when two book covers are rubbed together. Aziraphale cautiously wanders the shop, peering around shelves and stacks, but there is no one.

Slowly he looks upward to the second story where he keeps the more obscure works. Customers rarely venture up there, which suits Aziraphale just fine. He would not part with most of those books for a king’s ransom, so it’s just as well that no one sees them.

Carefully he makes his way up the spiral staircase, the iron railing cold under his fingertips. He thinks he should call out, but he doesn’t want to frighten whoever it is. The upstairs area is narrow and runs all the way around the shop in a circle, and huge windows let in the gray light of the snowy world outside. Once up there it is easy to locate the interloper near the horticulture section.

When Aziraphale peeks around the tall shelves he is shocked to find Crowley, a feather duster tucked under his arm while he holds a smallish book bound with a cover of wine-red leather. So focused is Crowley on reading this book that he doesn’t even notice Aziraphale standing there, mouth agape. Two things about this picture are so startling that it takes a moment for Aziraphale to realize their significance.

The first thing he comprehends is that _Crowley is reading a book_. This would not be so strange were it not for the fact that Crowley has adamantly asserted that he does not read. In fact the only time Aziraphale has even seen a book in his hands was the time just before the world almost ended, when Crowley saved Agnes Nutter’s book from the fire. The sight of him reverently holding this old, precious book in his hands is enough to make Aziraphale blink away tears.

The second thing he comprehends is that Crowley is holding a feather duster. He must have remembered that Aziraphale prefers to dust his books the old fashioned human way rather than to miracle the dust away. The fact that Crowley has decided to entertain himself by cleaning Aziraphale’s shop is unprecedented, and so thoughtful that Aziraphale’s heart feels bruised with a blow of kindness.

“If I’m not mistaken," says Aziraphale softly, "that is a signed first edition of The Gardener’s Labyrinth, published in 1577, written by Thomas Hill. It is the finest and earliest book of its kind, being a comprehensive collection of wisdom about Elizabethan gardening.”

Crowley jumps, startled by Aziraphale’s voice. The book snaps shut in his hands and he drops his feather duster. “Oh I...I was just...I noticed that these were a bit dusty. Thought I’d...well, you were busy.”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows, stepping closer. “It’s alright, my dear. I don’t mind. Far from it.”

Crowley swallows audibly. He shifts on his feet. “I do read sometimes, you know. Don't know why I told you that I don’t.” He sounds almost defensive.

“Yes, I gathered that,” Aziraphale says kindly. “Why this particular book?”

“Well…” Crowley dithers, and Aziraphale has never seen Crowley dither like this in all six thousand years of their acquaintance. “It happens that I might have...I knew Thomas Hill. I was supposed to tempt him, some sort of nonsense about his wife.”

“And?” Aziraphale prompts after a moment of silence.

Crowley looks away. “I liked him. He loved to get his hands dirty. He designed the most beautiful gardens. Labyrinths of hedgerows, arches of roses that tempted and drew blood. I’d never seen the like, not since Eden.”

Aziraphale’s heart clenches at the memory of Eden, that lush perfection, the scent of ripe fruit, that particular shade of green that was never seen again after the walls were sealed. He also remembers standing on the wall, his back to the garden, next to a serpent with rich dark earth still clinging to its scales, and then a demon in the shape of an angel, his feet brown with that same earth.

He thinks of Crowley’s houseplants, quaking with terror but verdant and glossy nonetheless, carefully tended with an almost desperate dedication.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale says, trying to convey a wealth of understanding in his voice. 

Crowley shrugs, affecting an unconvincingly careless air. “It’s not important, I was just remembering is all.”

Aziraphale steps closer, close enough to touch him. They do not touch, it has never been their way, but Aziraphale is overcome by a need to reach out, to reassure him, to thank him, to tell him that he is loved. Crowley's scent is rising from his warm skin, and he smells the way the old books do, like wood and vanilla and earth. 

Crowley shrugs again, his lean shoulder saying more than he ever could with words. “I’ll just…” He carefully replaces The Gardener’s Labyrinth on its shelf and retrieves the feather duster at his feet. He gives the tops of the books a half-hearted swipe with the feathers and then looks at Aziraphale.

There is a vulnerability in his golden eyes that Aziraphale has only glimpsed once, when he found Crowley in a bar drinking away his grief, clutching a book of prophecy. It had been difficult to see Crowley through the veil of discorporation, but that look had stunned him.

It stuns him now, Crowley’s desire for something out of his reach, that memory of things still loved. Lost Eden, a carefully tended place of rich earth and creation, the comfort of an ancient friendship carefully cultivated.

He lifts a tentative hand to Crowley’s cheek and anchors him there, his fingers warming with the heat of Crowley’s skin. Crowley looks like he did during the moments after the Apocalypse receded back into the ground: desperate, hopeful, overwhelmed. He closes his eyes and puts his own hand over Aziraphale’s.

“Come here, my love,” Aziraphale says gently, and Crowley leans forward and down, his mouth unerring even with his eyes closed. He rests his lips against Aziraphale’s, chaste and reverent, the way he held the book.

Aziraphale opens his mouth, just a tiny bit, just a millimeter shift, and Crowley makes a sound almost below hearing. He drops the feather duster again and carefully touches Aziraphale’s cheek, the whorl of his ear, the curve of his mouth, mapping him like a blind man would.

Their second kiss is tender, searching, Aziraphale seeking to reassure with touch, to bind himself to Crowley, to promise never to leave him again. He feels Crowley’s breath shudder against his lips, feels Crowley’s fingertips grasping, his need and confidence growing. The touch of his tongue against Aziraphale’s is like a blessing, bright and burning, a desire once tamped down but now unfurling in the sun.

Crowley opens his eyes and they are glowing like a fire. “Angel,” he says, sliding his hands down to curve around Aziraphale’s shoulders, slipping beneath the lapels of his coat, and Aziraphale is aware of his human body in a way he never has been before. He _wants_, he yearns to be closer, to press hard and envelope, to be enveloped in return. 

"My dear Crowley," Aziraphale replies, "how long have you waited?" 

He shakes his head, as though trying to deny the word "_forever_" that drops from his mouth like an unwilling confession. 

Aziraphale feels a thrill of both joy and pain. "I don't believe that we need to wait any longer, do you?" 

Crowley groans and presses Aziraphale back against the bookshelf. His kiss is deep and lush, asking Aziraphale to meet him halfway, which he is more than happy to do. He feels the spines of books against his own, a hard surface to push against. His arms wrap around Crowley’s slim shoulders, feeling the muscles there flexing as Crowley's hands continue to explore beneath Aziraphale’s coat.

Aziraphale runs his fingers along Crowley’s silver looped tie and Crowley shivers with the sensation. His heart beats fast and hard under Aziraphale’s hand and his breath comes quick. Aziraphale feels an answering thrum of desire, of anticipation, a burning wild thing trying to shine through his chest. 

"Is it always like this?" Aziraphale asks against Crowley’s cheek. 

"I don't know," Crowley says, touching his forehead to Aziraphale’s and framing his face with his hands. "You're the only one I ever wanted." 

Aziraphale gasps, taking in the enormity of that, the wrong assumption that Crowley had tempted and been tempted by many on his long life. Crowley, with his lust for life, his swagger of confidence. But Aziraphale also thinks of the demon who has a solemn reverence for a book, a memory, a friendship, and the patience to remain true to all of them. "Oh, my dear, you must know that I feel the same. I'm sorry I made you wait. I was not brave enough to try." 

"And now?" 

"Crowley, you make me brave." Aziraphale kisses him softly. "You make me believe." 

Crowley closes his glowing eyes and buries his face against Aziraphale’s neck, wrapping his arms tightly around him, but so carefully. They cling to one another surrounded by precious things, by ancient thoughts lovingly bound between two covers for safekeeping.

**Author's Note:**

> The Gardener's Labyrinth is a real book, published in 1577. It is available online, in high definition images. It's difficult to read the Elizabethan script, but it's interesting to try. It has some truly amazing images of the garden designs.


End file.
